Plot Points

All the talk about boomers customizing their coffins has stirred up what has been a life long and certainly morbid fascination with my own inevitable demise.

I have never wasted too much time worrying about the how or the when, the things beyond my control, although I admit I have put in a few silent requests:  no plane crashes, no taking me before I make sure my children are happy and settled (that may sound like a request for immortality, but I'm not seeking perfection), and please, God or whoever is in charge, do take me well before you even consider taking any of my offspring. I like to think I'm not asking for too much.

Mostly I worry about where I will end up. My bones, that is, not my soul. (I prefer not to think about the latter, and when I do I look at the bright side. At least I won't be cold.) But as long as I have a say, whether I am wrapped in a tie-dye shroud or resting comfortably on a pink satin pillow I want to feel comfortable among my neighbors, know that if I were to knock on someone's lid I'd feel welcome. I want to know I'll be invited to the block parties, even if I am as anti social in death as I am in life and choose not to go.

Back in the day when my marriage to a Catholic appeared to be thriving, I worried occasionally (okay, more than occasionally) about how we would manage to be buried together. I just could never get sold on the cremation idea (it seems so final), so burial has always appeared to be the only viable option. Jewish cemeteries have rather stringent requirements -- even Jews have to prove they are worthy; a Catholic wouldn't stand a chance -- and I would prefer not to spend Christmastimes in eternity surrounded by poinsettias.Thankfully that is no longer a concern.

Apparently as long as I don't renounce my Jewishness I can still be guaranteed a spot at Beth David or its ilk. I'm assuming that means no tattoos, no shopping retail, and no blow jobs. Uh oh! I wonder if I'd get credit for two out of three. (I only shop retail). I know the tattoo rule has plenty of loopholes, and I've been told the blow job prohibition isn't absolute. Word has it the occasional foray into such shiksa pursuits is okay, as long as you don't enjoy it.  Hopefully my somewhat religious devotion to the periodic "friends and family" sales at Bloomingdales will override a lifetime of a sacrilegious propensity to pay retail prices, prove to the powers that be that deep down I am pure Jew.

Just in case, maybe I should put a little thought into coffin or shroud design; that way, even if I end up in a place festooned with poinsettias and gigantic crosses decorated with barbaric images of an emaciated man in a loin cloth, folks might be fooled into thinking I fit in. Maybe I could commission a modern day Madame Defarge, someone who is talented enough to knit a burial cloth bearing an image of a tall blond shiksa that would fit nicely over a set of pear shaped bones. Maybe Peter Max wants to try his aging painter's hand on my casket, ensure his immortality with some psychedelic coffin designs. Or maybe cremation isn't so bad; I can always have myself sprinkled over Bloomingdales.

I'm just not ready to give up retail. As the older boomers start dying off, I'm starting to panic. I need a back up plan.